Chapter Text
He may not look like it and certainly not act like it, but he does notice things. On his better days, he likes to think that he has some brains. He notices the little things about people, their tells of emotions. Maybe it comes from his childhood. Maybe it comes from the eggshells, the broken glass on the ground, he had to walk around his parents. Sometimes, those moments were like those from a video game. A notification in the corner told him that he had messed up, that his steps were too loud, his voice too quiet, his tone too disrespectful, his…everything in the way.
Robert Reynolds notices things.
Now, after some days in the old Avengers tower with the others, a kind of calm has settled over all of them. At first, they were all tense around each other. Yes, they had worked together to stop…well, something he did not remember, apparently, but now they had no conflict, no enemy to glue them together. So, they first had to learn to be a team again. It was awkward, it was uncomfortable. They did not know how to live together, to share the same living room, the same bar.
From an outsider's perspective, it certainly had to be funny. The Winter Soldier, an ex-black widow, an assassin, the former Captain America, and Bob, the nobody addict, are dancing around washing dishes, doing the laundry, and cooking food. A comical play, and yet in reality, it made him itch.
In those days, it was as if he were back in his parents’ house. Bob kind of only stayed in the background. Mostly, he stayed in his room or the corner near the windows with a book in hand, sometimes reading, sometimes pretending, and listening to the others around him, so he could gauge their emotions.
He noticed things. He noticed their tells.
Alexei was always loud, his whole being loud. His voice, his laughter, his steps, the way he puts his glass on the table, or how he closes doors and complains about capitalism. His tell is when he turns quiet. The Russian was the first Bob noticed. It was the day they truly moved into the tower. Everyone had to choose their rooms, decorate them, and make them a home. Bob was sitting inside his own. His was empty, he had nothing to put inside it. Other than the lab coat and the suit from Valentina, he had no clothes. He did not even have a toothbrush. If he were to find his old place, the only thing he had was probably the drugs he had stored in a hollowed-out book. And well, after everything, he did not want to take meth anymore.
Bob had quickly chosen to spend the day in the corner, instead of the empty, lonely, voi- barren room. He could observe the whole living room.
He knew, of course, that he was living with very dangerous people. So, he should not be surprised that he never heard them moving around, that he had to hide flinches and surprised yelps whenever they suddenly stood behind him.
Which is why it came as a surprise when he had to flinch away from Alexei.
It was already night, somewhere between ten and midnight. Bob had not yet eaten for the whole day, seeing as Bucky, John, and Ava had occupied the kitchen and living room nearly the whole day, and Bob really did not want to cross them while their eyes were so heavy with stress. So, he had spent the day mindlessly staring at the ceiling or flipping through the books he had gotten from Valentina. Now, as no one was awake anymore, or at least in their rooms, he quietly made his way to the kitchen.
The LED monitors everywhere gave him enough light without turning the other lights on. The quiet hum of machines accompanied him to the fridge, his feet padding quietly on the marble floor.
The open kitchen was spacious, too big for even six people, and probably had the most modern equipment everywhere. He nearly felt bad for even touching the tap. The fridge was somehow wider than his whole arm span. And yet, when he opened it, the fridge was empty. Well, not completely empty. There were two eggs, an open juice, and some cheese.
Really, he did not even know what to say to that. He groaned, head thrown back, and stared at the lights on the ceiling. At least this ceiling was a bit more interesting than the one in his room. Well, he could either use the last two eggs and maybe face the wrath of one of the others tomorrow, or just eat tomorrow.
…
Yeah, no. He grabbed himself a glass and filled it with water. That would have to do for tonight. Maybe he can ask one of the others for money tomorrow, so he could go grocery shopping. The cold water somehow only managed to make him hungrier. He filled himself another glass and promptly let it fall to the ground when an arm suddenly appeared beside him.
He turned around as quickly as he could, arms raised in a copy of the moves he saw Yelena do. His heart beat wildly in his chest, cold sweat already on his brow. Shit, he could not fight that person. He would have to scream for one of—
“What are you trying to do with that, Bob?”
He blinked, the hum of machines and a bottle being opened registered in his mind, eyes slowly raking over the body before him. He slowly lowered his shaking hands.
“Ah, well, good evening, Alexei..”, he said, each word getting quieter until he barely even heard himself. Alexei stood before him, a bottle of vodka in one hand and a filled glass in the other. He was in a sleeping robe, bare chest peeking out. Bob swallowed. He never even heard him stepping around the kitchen.
Suddenly, it was like his mind was in overdrive, blood rushing through his ears and eyes, focusing solely on the man before him. He felt each rush of adrenaline pump through him.
Something was wrong. He felt it down to his bone marrow.
Alexei was too quiet, his voice too quiet, his whole being quiet.
Bob felt his hackles rise. Oh no.
He took a step back, eyes flitting from point to point, a sharp pain rising from his feet to his head. He barely even resisted a whimper. Right, his glass fell down, and he did not even have socks on. He swallowed again, his lips forming a shaky smile on instinct.
“So sorry if I was too loud. I’ll just- I’m just gonna, you know, just going to my room. Yeah, sorry.”, he mumbled, nerves rising with every passing second. Shit, man, he used to be good at leaving when he was not needed. He just had to fuck up again and again. He should just leave the tower completely; all of the others would be better—
“Careful, shards. You are like little rabbit, Bob. Always scared.”, Alexei says in his accent, voice rough as he takes another gulp of the vodka he found somewhere. The Russian stood there for another second before slowly and quietly stepping away and leaving Bob alone in the kitchen.
He took a shaky breath, fear just slowly leaving him as he contemplated just dying on the spot.
Well, he could at least clean up the glass shards.
Alexei got quiet. Especially around Bob. Sometimes, the group— because calling them a team at that stage would not be right yet—forgot that Bob also lived with them in the tower. Which, well, was good. If they forgot he existed, they would not punish him if he did something wrong, and he could almost live in peace with them. That is how he noticed things the most. When he sat in the corner, with a book in hand, and watched the other chill in the living room when they thought he was gone.
They were almost friendly to one another, slowly warming up and even joking around. It made something ugly fester inside of him, something that clung to his heart like a parasite, squeezing and pumping poison through his body like blood. He watched Alexei be loud with the others, watched as they joked and drank and sometimes even played games together. But the moment he loudly announced himself, even with just saying hello, their demeanor changed. Alexei turned quiet, eyeing him. Ava would sometimes mutter an excuse before phasing through the walls. Bucky quickly stepping away from him, stepping to the other side of the room. Walker's gaze would turn biting and angry, lips twisted into a snarl so familiar that Bob could not bear to look at it, choosing to leave first. Even Yelena, in all her kindness and calming presence, could not stand to be around him sometimes.
It hurt; in a way, it had never hurt before. With his parents at least, he had a reason for their behaviour. He was in the way, he only brought problems, and he had destroyed their life with his presence. He had made everything worse, like always.
But these people had promised him that they would stick together and that he was one of them. How could they now act like that after saying that to him? Was he truly that worthless?
It was now day nine of them living together. Or, well, living together and tolerating his parasitic presence in their lives.
Bob stayed in his room, reading and staring at the ceiling and staring out of his window, and thinking about his terrible, miserable, worthless life. He alternates between the two shirts and trousers he has, and uses the washing machine during the dead of night. He could probably ask Valentina for some clothes, but the others would probably kill him if he were to just breathe her name.
Valentina had tried to urge him to dye his hair blonde again, but Yelena had quickly stepped in and forced Valentina to leave their living room. Which. Well, it was weird. He had never dyed his hair blonde before, so he did not know where she got that idea from. In fact, everyone seemed to be on edge around Valentina. Yeah, she sometimes has that look in her eyes when she turned her gaze to him that made Bob feel like a rabbit in front of a wolf, but she had not done anything wrong. At least, as far as he knew. Interestingly enough, everyone would quickly shield him from her, forcing her to leave through the elevator, casting him a concerned gaze before going back to their normal behaviour.
Now, he lies on the floor in his room, gazing at the ceiling, the sun sinking slowly in the window, as he thinks about his life. He thinks about the past days.
Once, he had made the mistake of trying to get himself something to eat for lunch. He had walked as quietly as possible, head hung low and eyes flitting from one end to the other in anticipation of seeing one of the others. When he found no one in the kitchen, the feeling of relief nearly made him lightheaded. He went through some of the cupboards and found them all empty, except for some opened cereal. Some hope blossomed in his chest, especially after remembering that first night in the tower, which was then quickly crushed when the only milk he had found was already opened and had then nearly killed his nose with the foul smell.
Well, it would not be the first time he had to eat cereal without milk.
The weather that day was nice outside. The sun was out and there were almost no clouds. The sight was pretty nice up here. He took his bowl of cereal and water and went to the huge window where his usual place was. The first spoon nearly made him spit it out again, but he would have to manage.
He heard the elevator hum behind him, the whirring of cogs and wheels, and with it came that sinking feeling in his stomach. The cereal lost its taste as he chewed it slowly. When the steps sounded behind him, he slowly turned around and watched as Walker and Yelena made their way to him. They were both sweaty, and towels hung over their shoulders. They must have come from the training room a few floors downstairs.
Bob swallowed the remaining cereal and waved shyly at Yelena. She smiled back at him and stopped just in front of Bob, Walker staying some steps behind her with his usual pissed off expression whenever Bob was nearby.
“Hey, Bob. Nice to see you out of your room. What are you doing?” Yelena asked, taking the towel from her shoulder to wipe her sweaty forehead.
“Oh, you know, just eating lunch.”, he raised the cereal bowl as he answered. He watched Yelena scan his bowl, her eyebrows slowly pulling together. Walker peeked at him, scoffing and glaring. Bob felt his heart drop to his feet.
“What, you are really eating that for lunch?” he said, arms folding over his chest. Bob swallows, the mix of water and cereal not doing any favours for his queasy stomach. Spiders crawl over his body as the panic begins to seep in. Yelena frowns.
“What, what’s wrong with my cereal. I-I mean, the only milk we had was spoiled, so…water, you know, hah.”, he replied, as he felt his hands beginning to tremble. He had that itch again; he wanted to fidget with something, doing anything with his hands right now instead of only holding the bowl and a spoon.
“You should just take an apple instead of eating that monstrosity. Would also do more for…you.” Walker sneered, his eyes holding so much contempt that Bob had to look away. Shame trickled down his shame as he looked at his bowl, each passing second making it look worse and worse. Maybe Walker was right. He should just eat an apple and go back to his room so he would not bother anyone else.
He coughed lightly as the silence stretched on. Bob really did not want to look at anyone; their judging stares would be too much for him.
“Yeah, I’ll just…”, he slowly began walking away from them, gesturing vaguely with the hand that held the spoon, “I’ll just go to my room. Um, yeah”. It was probably not a good idea to turn his back on two killers, but he really needed the security of his room right now. He walked as fast as he could without making it seem like he was running away from them.
“Walker, you are such a—”
Yelena’s voice cut off as he closed the door behind him. The shame made his throat close. His breath shuddered. Yeah, he really was not hungry anymore.
He put the bowl on his nightstand and stared at it for a while. Maybe he should just catch up on a few hours of sleep.
After that, he just never got in the kitchen or living room during the day. It is not like he ever had the best sleeping arrangements, so it did not really matter that his life suddenly only began during the night. Insomnia and drugs will do that to you.
Still, sometimes even at night, he could hear someone walking around, and those hours he spent in his room, staring at the ceiling and counting sheep. Just like he was doing now.
The thing is, there was never really much food left during the night. He wondered what the others ate, if they just always ordered stuff in or…well, it did not really matter. Sometimes he just created something out of whatever was left, or just drank water until his stomach was full.
Now, on the carpet floor of his room, with every passing hour, he wondered if he should just leave. He could not even make it to the bathroom sometimes with his hurt foot. Nobody seemed to want him here, except Valentina, but she cannot visit him because the others would flip out. The only really positive thing here is that his room was actually quite big. Not like the dumps he had lived in during his addiction. But, well, all the other things made his skin crawl and wish he could just get back to his infested and too hard mattress. It also made his hand itch for a syringe to put into his arm, an urge he had actually forgotten since he had woken up.
Leaving.
Suddenly, that thought would not leave his head. His room was now nearly completely dark since he had not bothered to put the light on, and he could not be bothered to stand up now. Especially since that thought weighed him down with the power of five skyscrapers.
He would not even have to pack, since he does not even have anything of his own here. It should be easy enough. Just leave during the night, like tonight.
With every passing minute he spent on the floor, the ache in his back numbly pulsing through his body, and the air stale since he probably had not opened the window for two days, the idea just did not seem to leave him. It was like him, a parasite, clinging to the little hope he had left inside of him. No one would miss him. Bob would miss Yelena, though. She was kind, she really tried her best to talk to him, to include him, and be there for him, but even she grew wary. She was closer to the rest of the group than to him.
He would just continue to be a bother, a useless, worthless bother. He was not even doing anything. All of them were doing…stuff each day, training and saving people, and here he was, staring miserably at the ceiling, not contributing a single thing to the earth. God, he really was pathetic. He should leave, so that all the other could live better without him. What a waste of space he was. He really always just made everything worse.
The sight of his ceiling blurred, and his breath hitched. Pathetic.
It would not stop. He felt his heart squeeze in his chest, hurting so hard it made him distantly wonder if he would die of a heart attack. The tears sprang to his eyes so quickly that he did not have a single chance of repressing them. The one thing he could at least manage was swallowing down each disgusting sob that wanted to escape him. The ceiling seemed to press down on him, so he rolled over, and his eyes landed on the mess that was under his bed. So much dust. He could not even clean himself properly. He really was pathetic.
He clenched his eyes tightly, so tightly he felt his eyeballs press into his head. He took a shuddering breath and punched it out again, spit trailing down his cheeks.
He could not even breathe right. Each inhale became shorter and shorter until he was not even sure he was still breathing. His lungs shrivelled inside of him, just another thing that was rotten about him.
Bob did not even notice as he pulled his knees to his chest, arms wrapping around them and hands gripping the soles of his feet. One hand pressed down on the wound he got from the glass shard on the day with Alexei, and the pain slithered through his nerves like a snake. It made him groan. That…felt good somehow. His head suddenly felt clearer, the swarm of thoughts slowly dispersing to the back of his mind again.
He pressed down again, the bandage he had hastily wrapped around, creating a new kind of pain, as he pushed it into the wound. The pain was biting and blinding, a whimper escaping him, but it felt good. It made him better. His head was as clear as ever before. Is this how victims felt after an exorcism, after the demon was repelled? Free as a bird.
He pushed again, the other hand joining as he massaged the wound. Then he began pinching it with his nails. Which hurt a little too much, so he stopped.
He opened his eyes slowly, the dried tears pulling on his skin as he sat up slowly. He blinked a few times to get rid of the dry feeling in his eyes. Some light would actually be beneficial right now.
It took nearly hours but he heaved himself up to a sitting position. Then another thousand minutes until he could finally stand and hobble to his nightstand, where he switched on the little lamp. His eyes clenched together at the sudden assault, and he noticed the pressure behind his eyes, a small headache forming at his temples.
The blurry shapes formed furniture around him. He slowly made his way to his own private bathroom, hands grabbing at the walls and every piece of furniture he could get his hands on as the pain in his foot pulsed along his leg.
In the bathroom, Bob avoids his reflection and instead lets himself fall to the floor, where he opened the cupboard to find the first-aid kit that was found in every bathroom in the building, courtesy of Bucky. He took out some new bandages, a disinfectant, and an extra piece to cushion the whole thing.
The moment he took a look at his foot, his stomach opened up a black hole of shame. It coiled around his throat and heart like a snake, squeezing until he was sure that death would be kinder. It was suddenly so different from before. Before, the pain was grounding; it helped him through that…episode, it was good. Now, it felt like a new shame room altogether. He swallowed down the bile and the new tears and got to work. It was almost like second nature, tending to self-inflicted wounds. Before, it was when his hands got too shaky when injecting stuff into his veins, ripping open his whole arm in the process, now it was this.
All of this nearly made him cry again, his eyes watering and throat clogged with shame.
The disinfectant made his head clear again with the sudden pain, and for now, he focused on tending to the open wound. The blood was already appearing through the first layer of gauze, so he rolled it over his foot a few times until the red was invisible again.
After everything was done, he allowed himself to sit in the bathroom for some time. The cold tiles were harsh against his feet, and the wall was not a comfortable place to lean against. He could not find it in himself to care about the additional aches in his body.
That evening, in the cold bathroom of the former Avengers tower, blood on the floor and bandages around his foot and shame in his throat, he decided that it would be better for everyone if he left. Perhaps they would not even notice.
The next day, he prepared everything he could. Since he did not have many things of himself, he did not even need to pack anything, but he tried to get what he could. Bob found an empty bottle somewhere in the cupboard and filled it with water. There were some leftover snack bars and some apples, so he took them too. He even went as far as to using the elevator to reach the training floor and stole two small knives. And maybe a backpack too, but who was counting?
The minutes ticked by as he waited with bated breath in his room. His heart was hammering inside his ribcage. It felt illegal, somehow. He feared that the others would somehow know and stop him, and—
He did not really know what they would do if they found out. He did not really want to know.
Bob even left them a letter. It was small, barely even five sentences, but he did not want them to worry if they were to notice his disappearance. And if they would even worry. Maybe they will be glad that he was gone. He contributed nothing to the team, did nothing to help the citizens of New York, or even the world.
His teeth were cracking with the pressure he put on his jaw. He had experience with living on the streets; he could do this. He could find some job, maybe even a small cranny under the bridges somewhere. There, he could dream about the life he could have had and cry through the night.
The clock on his nightstand showed three hours after midnight, and the last person who was walking around the living room had finally stepped inside their room, and he heard the shutting of the door. He waited for another half hour to make sure that that person would not decide to get out of their room again. And then he waited another fifteen minutes to get over the sudden nausea that had made him rush to the bathroom, heaving over the toilet even though nothing got out except for the shameful sobs of his disgusting soul.
Bob tried to keep his footsteps as quiet as possible, but the latches of the door opened too loudly for his ears. He did not bother switching on the lights. All the times he walked around here during the night made it nearly possible to walk through the whole apartment blindfolded; and he had tried that one night when he got bored of counting the stars.
As he finally arrived at the elevator, he paused and turned around to face the room.
This was it.
A new wave of grief washed over him. His breath was punched out of him as he looked around. Bob did not want to leave suddenly. Yes, he was so sure of his decision that he even stole stuff, but now his legs were rooted to the spot, and he could not bear to press the button to call the elevator. He could barely make out some spots of the living room, but he did know that Alexei had put up a small bar on the kitchen counter with various vodka bottles and other hard stuff. He knew of the knife marks on the huge table that were caused by Ava whenever Walker annoyed her too much at breakfast; their shouts were too loud for him to ignore in his room. He knew where Yelena kept the food hidden for that guinea pig she got from somewhere. He knew of the photos Bucky had printed out of the former Captain America and other people Bob did not know, that he kept hidden inside one of the books on the shelves.
Bob knew these people, somehow. He knew small things about them that the media would never, should never, learn about.
And he wanted to leave all this behind. Somehow, it seemed wrong to him now.
Almost unconsciously, he made to walk away from his only way out. And then, pain curled around his leg like a snake. He stumbled slightly, a hiss escaping his lips before he quieted. Right, that stupid thing. He groaned quietly, gazing at the ceiling in annoyance. He glanced at the kitchen again, unease rolling around in his stomach, and before he could change his mind, pressed the button to open the elevator. It did not even take that long for it to arrive, and the sound it made was so loud that Bob felt he had to enter it now.
He braced himself against the wall, trying to keep the pressure off his foot for now. Inside, he quickly pressed the button for the lobby and tried not to pull the emergency stop. The machines whirred to life as he felt his insides fly, descending from the clouds to the ground. It did not even take that long, barely a minute, and he found that he was a coward.
The doors opened with a ding, and he just…stared. He really was about to do this. Almost like in a trance, he slowly hobbled out and listened dimly as the doors closed. The Lobby was empty, of course, the sounds of the city now louder.
In hindsight, he probably should have been more suspicious about why it was so easy to leave for him, he thought as he watched a shadow from the corner walk towards him. If there was a reason for him to be here, of course, there would be consequences if he were to leave.
The shadow turned out to be a woman. Valentina. Valentina stood before him, her usual smirk on her lips as she slowly walked towards him.
“Going somewhere, Robert?”
Cold. Commanding. Valentina.
Her heels clicked against the tiles on the ground. She wore all black, save for the blood-red scarf around her throat. She smiled—concern shining in her eyes.
Bob swallowed slowly, throat clogged. He hated that name. That she was the only one alive now who called him that. It triggered something inside of him that reminded him too much of his father.
“I’m leaving.”, he whispered after he had gathered enough courage to glance at her shoulder. She tilted her head, a small frown gathering on her face.
“Now, why would you do that?”
Bob looked away. “I don’t belong here.”
It was strange. Sometimes these thoughts did not have words to describe them, even in his head. He confused himself with his emotions. He would not dare to try to explain himself to anyone; nothing would come out of his mouth. Yet Valentina and her ‘Robert’, her concern for him and her commanding tone, really brought out this side of him that just wanted to talk to her, to answer. He felt that he had to, somehow.
“Is that how you feel, or what they made you feel?”
His fingers twitched against the strap. “What?”
She gave a long, sad sigh that made his shoulders hunch almost on command.
“My dear Robert, you think no one wants you here, isn’t that right?” Bob felt his heart stutter in his chest. He opened his mouth, but words failed him, a pathetic whimper escaping instead.
“I know that because I know you, Robert. They don’t understand you, but I do.”, she continued, taking another step towards him. She could touch him now; he registered dimly inside the fog in his head.
“I don’t even understand myself.”, he said suddenly, to his surprise, the words flowing out of him without his consent.
She tutted softly, expression full of concern and pity for him. “That’s alright. I could help you find answers. Not like them.”
Bob blinked. “They tried.” She huffed, rolling her eyes.
“Did they? Or did they pity you? There is a difference. They didn’t bring you here to help you, Robert. They did it to manage you.”
He frowned now, a sort of protectiveness rising inside of him. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? Look at how they treat you. Like you’re fragile. Or dangerous. You’re not a teammate to them, Robert. You’re a pet. Something they keep on a short leash, waiting to see if you bite.”
The information swirled around in his head. How would she know all that? How could she know his daily life inside the tower? He took a step back.
“No, no, that’s—”
“Do they confide in you? Let you in?” She took the step forward, her hands now brushing his arms and pulling him towards her, “Or do they keep you in the dark, whisper when you enter the room, throw you scraps of kindness so you won’t snap?”
He hesitated; he flinched. And she pounced.
“You think they’re helping you? They are babysitting you. And when it gets inconvenient, they’ll cage you. Or worse.”
Bob swallowed and clenched his jaw. “They’re just…careful.”
She cooed, her hands now on his face, caressing it so softly that he almost melted. Her touch was kind.
“Careful? Please, don’t make me laugh. They are scared. You don’t deserve that, Robert. You deserve to be respected. You deserve to be feared, if you choose to be. But not pitied. Not kept.”
She caressed his jaw, brushing some loose hair out of his face. Her voice was like silk over glass, dark eyes capturing him inside their net. “You are not their equal. Not in their eyes. You are their experiment. A risk to be monitored.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I see what they don’t. I see a man who has been used. Forgotten. And still stands. I see potential.”
He looked away, his whole body trembling.
“You want to be free, Robert? Truly free?” she asked softly, tilting his head towards as he looked at her on instinct, again. “Stop trying to please people who never saw you as more than a burden.”
She let the silence stretch; her words sink inside his head and heart. “Let me help you find your strength. Your truth. Not theirs. Yours.”
He did not answer, could not find an answer.
“You are not broken, Robert. You are unfinished. And unfinished means potential.”
He stared at the outside behind her.
“Stay,” she said, commanded. “Not for them. For you.”
“Step away from him, Valentina.”
Bob flinched violently, her long and sharp nails scraping his cheek slightly in the process. Valentina rolled her eyes, all concern and softness vanishing swiftly as she stepped back unbothered.
“Speak of the devil.”
“You okay?” Bucky asked, voice quiet but cold, eyes locked on Valentina.
“We were just talking”, Valentina answered, voice full of wistful innocence. “Dear Robert was considering leaving. I was just encouraging him to think it through.”
Bucky eyes the rucksack on his back, brows furrowing slightly before coldly regarding Valentina again. The man beside Bob scoffed, arms crossing over his chest and eyes narrowing dangerously.
“You don’t encourage. You manoeuvre.”
“Oh, please, James. I only told him the truth. That maybe—just maybe—he’s not being treated like he deserves. More like a…stray dog than a person. Useful, but watched. Always controlled.”
Bob flinched, his heart quickening as Bucky's expression almost turned murderous. “Don’t talk about him like that, Val,” he spat her name out like it personally offended him, which—considering the person behind it—it probably did. “You just want him dependent. That’s how you work.”
Valentina’s smile sharpened. “Funny, coming from someone who wants him leashed inside the compound. You’re not protecting him, Bucky. You’re guarding him. Like the better-trained hound keeping the other one from barking.”
Bucky took a threatening step towards her. “I know what it’s like to not know who you are. I know what it’s like to be treated like a weapon, not a man. But what you are offering? That’s not freedom. That’s a gilded cage.”
“And yours is just plain steel,” Valentina snapped. “You think this team accepts him? They tolerate him. Out of fear. Out of necessity. They trust him as much as anyone would trust a cane sporco.”
Bucky’s gaze turned angry. A cold and dangerous rage appeared on his face. “Do not talk to him like that, Valentina,” he nearly growled, taking another threatening step towards her, towering over her.
Valetina slightly raised her eyebrows, unthreatened. “Like what? I’m just giving him some friendly advice, as his boss. No reason to get angry now, is there?” she smiled, all teeth bared.
The switch between her moods made Bob’s head swim. One second concerned, then angry, then calm. Bob swallowed, the tension here making him feel like he was drowning.
“Bob does not need advice from you, of all people. Let him be,” Bucky snarled, back straight and his piercing gaze only on the woman before him, unblinking.
The woman smirked again, eyes taking on a glint that made Bob even more uneasy, if that was even possible. Suddenly, her eyes turned on him.
“Well, you heard the man, Robert. It wouldn’t be right of me to interfere in your life. After all, you already have your owners, cagnolino.“
„Leave. Now. And never talk to him again,” Bucky whispered dangerously, the tone making Bob’s hair stand up, a shiver running down his back.
Valentina huffed amusedly, before walking away to the elevator.
The silence was tense as the seconds progressed, the sounds of the elevator growing quieter. After some minutes, Bucky sighed and dragged a hand over his face before turning to look at Bob. “You alright?” he said, gruffly, sounding a lot more tired than he did before.
Bob startled slightly, his eyes locking with Bucky’s but quickly averting them at the storm of emotions there.
“Yeah, um, yeah…totally fine,” he stammered, “Uh…Are you? You know, alright?”
Another sigh. “Yeah, I’m alright.”
Bob nodded, and the silence continued. It reminded Bob of the few times his family had tried to hold normal conversations over dinner. No one really knew how to break the silence, what to say so that his father would stay in a good mood.
“Well, come on. I’m tired, let’s go up,” Bucky said, finally.
Bob furrowed his eyebrows, the doors leading to the street glinting almost mockingly. Bucky seemed to notice where his eyes looked, another sigh escaping him that made Bob want to run away even more. It sounded disappointed, in a way his aunt always was when her golden retriever had peed on the carpet again.
Valentina’s voice echoed through his head.
He shivered slightly, a weird feeling rumbling through his stomach. Bob huffed instead, eyes downcast as he followed Bucky to the elevator doors. The silence stretched on and on and on as they waited for the machine to come down and lead them up. It was like the car rides during his childhood. After a somewhat normal day outside, where they visited the park or some other place his father wanted to go to. A foreboding silence in the car, where he knew that the moment the latches closed on their door, the screaming would begin. He would go to bed with bruises and patches of hair missing.
His scalp already felt tingly as those memories came to the surface of his thoughts.
He did not even want to guess at Bucky’s expression, instead eyeing the metal arm. That could cause him some serious injuries, he was sure.
Finally upstairs, Bob saw the clock on the kitchen counter flash six hours after midnight. The rucksack was heavy on his back after all the time he had been carrying it.
“You want a drink?” Bucky asked, walking to the various alcohol bottles in the kitchen, picking up a random bottle, and pouring a generous amount of brown liquid into a fancy glass.
“Uh, no. I don’t really drink,” Bob muttered.
Bucky scoffed, almost a chuckle, almost a growl. “Yeah, I don’t either, but that woman gets on my nerves like almost no other.”
Bob nodded, not really knowing what else to do, shoulders hunched. Bucky quickly downed the glass, poured himself another, and only took a small sip of it, turning back to him and sitting down on a bar stool by the kitchen aisle.
“You alright? She didn’t hurt you or anything, right?” he inquired.
Bob slowly walked towards him. Not joining him at the aisle, a respectable distance away, so that he could still make a run for it if necessary, eyeing that metal arm with apprehension.
“No, she didn’t do anything. We just talked.”, he answered slowly, the small smile on his face feeling quite strained. Cold sweat trickled down his back as Bucky inspected his face. Then he nodded, seemingly satisfied with whatever he found there.
“And uh…you adjusting alright? To the tower, the team?”
Despite how uncomfortable Bucky looked with the conversation, he did try to look sincere. Something his father had never tried to do before starting with his fists. Both Bob and Bucky ignored the Rucksack on his back.
Bob nodded again before realizing that Bucky probably wanted a verbal answer. “Yeah, everything’s fine,” even he can feel the strain in his voice.
Bucky sipped on his glass, eyes locked on him. “And the uh— the memories? Everything fine in that department? You handling stuff alright?”
That made him pause. That must be a trick question. Yes, he had told Yelena about his memory problems, but why would Bucky know about them? Despite everything, he did not assume that Yelena would go around exposing people’s secrets.
The former soldier seemed to notice his hesitance, something like suspicion entering his eyes. Bob took a breath. Before he could answer, however:
“It’s just, I know what it’s like to lose yourself,” he said, finally taking his eyes off Bob and looking at the glass instead, “ To become someone you don’t remember, and do things you wish you didn’t,” he took a sip, huffed and sighed.
And Bob…did not know. He felt that he was missing something important. Like during school lessons, where he had been sick the days before, and now had to pretend as if he knew what the teacher was talking about. Smiling and nodding would probably not work here.
But the implications behind Bucky’s confession stirred something inside of him. He felt sick suddenly, as if something heavy was being placed inside his stomach. And before he could stop it—
“What did I do?”
Bucky froze, drink halfway up to his mouth, a flicker of something in the furrow of his eyebrows, the downturn of his lips. He recovered quickly, downing the rest of the glass and carefully placing it on the counter. Then, he sat there for a second, looking entirely out of place, before lowering his eyelids and lips pressed thin.
“Tell me, Bob, what do you remember from about two weeks ago? When you met the others. What happened?” the man asked, voice heavy.
A cold shiver ran down Bob’s arms. His hands felt clammy where they held onto the straps of the rucksack for dear life.
“What—what do you mean?”, his voice felt shaky as the sounds left his lips. “What did I do?”
“Just answer the question, Bob,” Bucky snapped, not loud but fierce in his tone. He startled more out of habit than fear.
“Just waking up in that bunker, nearly being incinerated to death, leaving and then…,” he started confidently, picturing the events before his eyes, but then everything turned fuzzy, pictures, sounds, and other senses leaving behind only darkness in his head. “And then waking up in New York with you guys and the interview with Valentina afterwards,” he finished meekly.
Bucky muttered a curse, expression pained, which means the situation must be dire if he had forgone that blank mask of his.
The man lowered himself from the bar stool, hands slightly raised as if to comfort an injured animal.
“Now, listen, Bob, it’s—”
“What did I do, Bucky?” Bob questioned, fear making his stomach roll uncomfortably. He must have done something bad, something that would make everyone want to avoid him, something that could get this reaction out of Bucky.
Bob took a step back as Bucky advanced slowly, hands curling around his hair and tugging.
“Bob, you need to listen. You didn’t do anything,” he said, stern and still advancing.
“Well, I must have done something! Just tell me what, please!” he begged, hysteria making his voice quite high-pitched, tugging and tugging on his hair, the ache helping him form words and thoughts but it was not enough, he needed more, he needed—
His hand was grabbed after a particularly hard tug that made him whimper on instinct. He blinked at the expression on Bucky’s face and—
He blinked and—
He blinked—
He—
He blinked and suddenly stood inside a damp and dimly lit room. The walls were wet and yellow, stains running down everywhere he looked. His heart pounded against his rib cage, blood rushing through his ears.
Something was familiar about this.
He was startled out of his thoughts as the door behind him— which he had not noticed! He thought with panic—slammed open, and four guys appeared, dragging another unconscious man inside.
Bob jumped away from them, back hitting the wall.
“Hey, what—what’s going on?” he stuttered out.
They did not flinch, did not indicate that they heard him.
They put the man on the chair contraption in the middle of the room—how did he not notice that thing!—and strapped some heavy-looking metal cuffs around his arms and legs.
The unconscious man had long and messy brown hair, nearly falling down to his shoulders, tickling that sense of déjà vu inside of Bob. Was that—
“Bucky?” Bob blurted out, bracing himself in case the other men were not friendly, which seemed to be the case with each passing second. Nobody reacted, again. Then, one of the four men shouted something to the still-open door in a foreign language. It sounded Russian.
Before Bob could really process any of this, the man in the chair grunted, face contracted in pain. Then, a second passed, and suddenly, crackling echoed through the room. Like when the girls in school had rubbed a balloon all over their clothes and had held it up to their hair, just louder and much more violently.
Bob watches as if in a trance as the man started writing and whimpering and grunting, muscles spasming against the shackles. He realized suddenly, vomit traveling up his throat, that they were electrocuting him.
“Hey, what—Stop! Stop that!” he shouted, lightheaded and so very afraid. And still, they ignored him. So, he was forced to listen to the screams of this man. When he turned away to vomit against the wall, to give the man some of his dignity back or to save some of his own, Bucky suddenly stood beside him. His Bucky, the one he remembered talking to just some minutes before this horror show.
His face was another blank mask, but with so many emotions forming a storm inside his eyes. Bob vomited on the floor, the man’s screams rattling through his brain as he wished for the scene to just disappear—
“Hey, hey, you’re alright,” through his tear-stained vision, he saw the blob that was probably Bucky move towards him.
“DON’T TOUCH ME!” he screamed, another wave of nausea making him dizzy.
Bob continued heaving after nothing else came out, his arms shaking as they held him up from falling face-first into his sick. It took some time before the feeling in his body returned. Bucky was whispering reassurances, crouching beside him but never touching. They were back in the tower, somehow.
And somehow, he understood.
“That wasn’t the first time I did that, was it?” his voice sounded awful, more croaking than talking.
Bucky turned quiet, seconds ticking by.
Then, “No, it wasn’t.”
Bob nodded, resigned, and heaved himself up. “That disaster two weeks ago…that was me,” he whispered, keeping his eyes off Bucky.
“Yes.” Simply.
Bob choked on a sob, fingers curling around hair before he could think. A laugh escaped him, wet and hurt. How pathetic could he be?
He heard shuffling as Bucky lowered himself to the ground. Here, Bob was, crying and vomiting over his own pathetic self while Bucky was the one who had been tortured, the one who deserved to cry and despair.
Yet, Bob could not stop. The sounds that were escaping him were a disgusting mix of sobs and hysterical laughter. Of course, it was him. It was always him, and it is going to be always him. The problem, the monster, the curse, the one who made everything worse.
That was probably the reason Yelena wanted him to live here. He was dangerous; he was a threat to everyone. He needed to be kept in check.
He was a monster.
“Hey, stop that,” a voice cut through.
He blinked, and Bucky knelt before him, expression fierce, yet gentle.
“You are not a monster. You had no choice in your actions. It was not your fault,” he spoke. Bob choked on his next breath, shaking his head, pulling on his hair, and scratching his arm.
“No, no, no. I am. I am a monster,” he heaved and spat. “I took over New York. I am the reason why a whole building got destroyed. I—I hurt people. I killed people,” he snapped, paired with a vicious scratch against his arm.
Bucky’s dark his followed his actions, hands twitching as if to touch him, yet he refrained. “So what?”
The absurdity made him stop, staring at the man as if he had grown two heads.
“So what?”, he repeated, “I killed people. I destroyed buildings. Would you call me a monster?”, his eyes shone but his voice never wavered.
“No! You didn’t have a choice! Hydra made you do all this!” Bob spluttered, defensive over Bucky when he could not be for himself.
A small smirk appeared on Bucky’s face as he slowly lifted his arms and—before Bob could even register the thought to stop him—hugged him. It was warm and fierce, heavy in all the right places.
Bob felt…he did not know how he felt. His head was quiet, for once. No emptiness, no flurry of thoughts, just peaceful quiet. Like sitting on a bench in a park, birds chirping, and the wind rustling through the trees.
Peaceful and beautiful.
The next sob that he let out was visceral and ugly, but oh so relieved. For once, he ignored that voice inside of him, that voice that doubted Bucky’s kindness, this hug. Just once, he wanted to be held, to be loved without doubt.
Light streamed softly over the buildings, the sun barely peeking out yet. Bob did not really know how much time had passed, just sitting here next to his sick, with Bucky holding him.
“I’m sorry,” Bob mumbled against the man’s shoulder. His own knees were hurting; he could not imagine how Bucky must feel in his position. “Don’t ever apologise for this. You’re okay,” Bucky answered, slowly letting go of the hug but never letting go of Bob, holding his hands instead.
Bob whimpered. “I’m broken.”
“You’re not,” he sounded so sure, so confident that Bob did not have it in himself to refute the man. Instead, he watched a new day begin through the windows and quietly wondered:
“Do you think I’ll ever be normal?”
Bucky chuckled softly. “Define normal.”
“I don’t know. Peaceful, maybe. Whole.”
“You already are, in pieces. That’s enough.”
They shared a look. Quiet acceptance of one another, recognition, and gentleness.
“Thank you, Bucky,” Bob muttered, smiling slightly.
Bucky shrugged. “We’re all broken here. The trick is choosing who helps you put the pieces back.”
Honestly, how many tears did Bob even have left now? Still, he found himself tearing up a little again at that. He nodded and, for a moment, just enjoyed Bucky’s presence and the steady pressure of his hands against his own.
“What the fuck happened here?”
Bob flinched violently.
“Good morning, Ava,” Bucky answered monotonously, sparing her a quick glance before standing up and holding out a hand for Bob.
He felt his ears burn. Still, he took the hand and promptly nearly fell over after a sharp pain travelled up his foot. Bucky caught him without a problem and regarded him with a raised eyebrow.
“Alright, let’s go take care of those wounds,” he declared, eyeing the scratches on his arm and the foot he avoided standing on.
“You don’t have to,” Bob deflected quietly.
Bucky nodded. “Alright. But I want to.”
“Well, does anyone want to clean this up?” Ava chimed in from the sink, casting a pointed look at the vomit still there on the ground. Bob’s face must be as red as Alexei’s suit, burning hot as he stammered something out, yet nothing that made sense.
Bucky huffed and adjusted the hold he had on Bob.
“Yeah, yeah, we’ll take care of it.”
Ava hummed, putting the coffee mug to her mouth and taking a sip of whatever she had in there. “Alright, you have fun,” and then she phased back through the walls.
Bob chuckled a little awkwardly, and Bucky tugged at his arm, leading him to the next bathroom.
And it was fun.
Bucky never really let go of him, always grounding him with a soft touch to his shoulder, his elbow, his back. Bob nearly felt overwhelmed with the positive attention, yet he also soaked it up like a sponge. Bucky took care of his wounds, cleaning them, bandaging them.
“You need to let yourself heal. You deserve it,” he had murmured, expression gentle and vulnerable, wrapping the gauze around his foot.
And Bob had wondered quietly if someone had told Bucky that until he had believed it.